By N. Franko
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Money never mattered to millionaire socialite, Stacey Holiday—until she lost it all!My grandmother, the great Gladys Gladwell Holiday and I were never really close, but when she died, I still mourned her the only way I knew how: wine straight from the bottle and randomly texting HottGuy69 on an anonymous dating site.
It was nice of Grandmother to leave me everything she owned to inherit on my wedding day, but it wasn’t like I needed the money. Except, my father was just arrested and my family’s assets are now frozen so yes, I very much need Grandma’s money!
Then, my childhood friend Logan suddenly pops back into my life.
The sweet, humble, chubby, Italian kid who worked for my grandmother turned into a hot, sexy specimen of a man and we reconnected in more ways then one.
Then, my family pushes him away and for good, this time. I never thought I would ever see him again. That is, until I learned the identity of HottGuy69…
Technically Speaking is a fast-paced, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy with more sweetness than you can handle. It is book two of N. Franko’s Romantic Comedy of Errors, but can be read alone and in any order.
Continue the Romantic Comedy of Errors series by buying, Technically Speaking today.
I stayed to help Logan clean up after dinner, but he wouldn’t let me do any work. He made me a cup of the tea I loved, and I just hung out, leaning over the large island in the kitchen and making jokes while he washed and put dishes away.
“Why do you drink that stuff anyways? You know it’s still a stimulant,” he said about my tea. He’d been ridiculing it, saying that it tasted like sewage, which was actually pretty funny because my best friend, Julia, says that same thing.
“Coffee is too acidic. I prefer to be in a more alkaline state,” I replied and immediately regretted my words, realizing what a snooty, basic, rich girl I sounded like.
“It sounds like you’ve never had good coffee then,” he said. “Your grandmother has a nice cappuccino maker and some decent looking Italian coffee.”
“I’ve only had coffee once when I was younger. I had a sip of my dad’s one morning before work and not only did it taste awful, but it burned my mouth. Plus, my dad yelled at me for it,” I confessed.
“Well, you definitely haven’t had good coffee then. Here, I’ll make you some,” he said and fired on the cappuccino maker. The thing buzzed and roared and whizzed while Logan pressed buttons and poured this and that into that and this. I had no idea what he was doing but the result was a small cup of frothy, warm, brown liquid with a little heart drawn in the middle of the foam.
“Wow, this looks amazing. I almost don’t want to drink it,” I said, but I took a sip anyways. I expected a hot, bitter taste to fill my mouth, but the thick liquid was warm and sweet. The smell had a musky yet floral smell to it that made me feel cozy somehow, even though it was a warm evening in Los Angeles. “This is so good,” I said.
Logan smiled at me and reached his hand up to my face. He ever so gently, brushed his thumb across my lips. Heat and energy rushed between us at the feel of his touch. I felt my stomach melt; my heart boom and I suddenly couldn’t remember how to breath. “Sorry, you had foam on your lips,” he said.
He made himself a cup and we sat in the kitchen, reminiscing about our childhood. Honestly, though, I barely listened to what he was saying. I couldn’t keep my mind away from the electricity that I suddenly felt. Was it always there and I was just too blind to see it?
After a few minutes of talking in the kitchen, I felt a rush of energy and had an idea. “Why don’t we go for a run!”
“Damn, I should’ve made decaf. You have a caffeine high,” Logan said and laughed. His laugh sounded sweet and musical coming from his booming, sexy voice. I can’t believe I never noticed what an amazing laugh he had. “I think it’s a little late for a run.”
“A swim, then,” I said. Suddenly, the prospect of swimming at night was the best idea in the world and I ran upstairs to change into my bathing suit.
“I don’t know, Stacey,” Logan called after me.
“I do know, Logan. Let’s go swimming. We used to do it all the time when we were kids, remember?”
“I don’t have anything to swim in,” he protested, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. I wanted to see more of that body.
Instead of rushing to my room, I found Bronson’s. He had gone out for the night and probably wouldn’t be back until early in the morning, if at all, so I didn’t think anything of waltzing in there.
The stench of sweat and heat assaulted my nose. I tried to avoid all the dirty clothes on the floor, but there was such a large pile, it was hard not to step on a few pairs of underwear. With no one working at the house to take care of the cleaning, we were all left to fend for ourselves and it was clear that Bronson had no clue what it meant to tidy up or knew the word laundry.
I dug around in his dresser drawer, found a clean pair of swimming trunks and bolted out of there before the smell stuck to me. “Here!” I yelled to Logan as I tossed the trunks to him. “Meet me at the pool.”
I rushed to my room and found my bathing suits. Julia had laughed at me when I began packing them, but I told her that my grandmother had a pool that I intended to take full advantage of. It was a good thing I ignored her laughing, too, because swimming with Logan was exactly what I needed to do right now and there was nothing stopping me.
Playing tennis was one thing but swimming? Swimming? I had to draw the line somewhere and swimming was it. Yes, Stacey and I would swim every summer when we were kids. Gladys didn’t like me swimming in her pool, so we opted for a public one. Usually it was at some country club Stacey’s family was a part of (I have no idea how Stacey managed to get me in). She didn’t know how much the other kids would point and make fun of me at the pool, though. They kept it to themselves around her, of course. Everyone wanted to impress Stacey Holiday. When she wasn’t looking, though? I was enemy number one.
I spent most of my pool time with my shirt glued to my body. Stacey would try to convince me to take it off but even she couldn’t make me. Now, here I was, wearing her brother’s shorts, shirt glued to my body, sitting by the pool. At least it was dark, and no kids were around to point and laugh. That’s one thing no one tells you about losing weight, no matter how much you lose and how great you look after working so hard, the voices and laughs and stares of your past live on like ghosts in your head. When Stacey came out wearing a red bikini, though, even those ghosts shut themselves up and stared.
“Of course, you’re wearing a shirt,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because, you said you’d show me more of that chiseled body of yours earlier and I’d like to see it.” She pulled at my shirt. Crap. I did say something about taking my shirt off, didn’t I? Why did I say that? Why was I trying to show off?
With a reluctant sigh, I pulled my shirt over my head and stood in front of Stacey. Our bodies were close, almost touching. Her eyes lingered on my body the way I do to her sometimes. “Wow,” she said.
She stepped closer to me and I felt the energy, the heat and desire rise between us. She raised her hands and put them on my chest. Her touch felt soft, smooth and electrified my body. I wanted her to touch every inch of me the way I would touch every inch of her. I almost put my hand on her hips and pulled her in to me, but she never gave me the chance. She smiled up at me as she pushed me, and I went flying backwards into the pool.
She laughed as I made my way up to the surface just in time for her to yell “CANNON BALL!” and she leapt into the air, landing in the water with a loud splash as water exploded around her.
We splashed water at each other and laughed for a while. Finally, settled and just floated on the surface of the pool. The light emanating from below cast a brilliant blue on her soft, pale skin and golden hair. “Why did we ever stop doing this?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I guess we just grew apart,” I said.
She stood up in the pool and moved closer to me. I did the same and backed into the steps of the shallow end of the pool and she sat beside me. “I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly with a serious tone.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Besides, I’m just glad I’m here now.”
“Me too,” she said, and she did something that I had only ever thought she would do in my dreams. She wrapped her arms around my neck, lifted herself to meet my gaze and kissed me on the lips.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
N. Franko is an author and musician living out her own happily ever after with her very own, rock star husband in Canada. Sign up for her mailing list at www.nfrankowrites.com for all the latest news on releases, sales and freebies.
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